Carla's Toy

by Anne O'Nonymous

 

THE STORY CONTINUES

 

"One last touch, mom," Carla said, putting a feminine wedding ring, containing at least a half caret brilliant-cut diamond, on the third finger, left hand.

Placing ring on, she looked at me with a most pleasant smile. I never questioned the fact that it fitted so perfectly.

"Now, you're the mommy! A most beautiful mommy, to be sure."

We went down to the kitchen, where Carla set up some video cameras. The "scene" would have Carla coming home from school, being greeted by her mother, and the two sitting down to a snack.

"Paula, can you cook?" Carla asked as she put a rather frilly apron on me.

"Tom never complained."

"Umm, grilled cheese and, oh, coffee."

"Sure!"

Now picture this: I'm in the kitchen making coffee and grilling sandwiches for my darling daughter in a get-up similar to June (or Judy) Cleaver.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

The Scene:

Carla entered the kitchen, carrying her books, giving out a cheery, "Hi mom, I'm home!"

"Hello dear, and how was school today?" I reply, giving her a big hug and kiss.

"Great! Saw this real cute boy in English, Tracy's mom is preggies again, and Sandy Monroe, you know – she's that tall blonde cheerleader – was dumped by her girlfriend, because she winked at a boy, Charlie Fischer. I just barely passed Spanish, and got a 95 in Home Ec, thanks to you. They are painting several classrooms, so I may be off a few days. So, how was your day?"

"Mostly the same housework, paid three bills, got a letter saying 'You May Be a Millionaire' which I filed in the trash. Mr. Carter still hasn't returned my call regarding part-time work. I think I'll take up that other offer."

Gossiping, we ate sandwiches, drank coffee, then Carla said, "These are good, mom. How about dessert!"

"Sounds good," I replied, not knowing where this was headed.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Carla got up and led me to the living room and told me to wait. She returned to shut off cameras in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, I saw the two cameras pointed towards an area at the back of a sofa. One was set high, to capture happenings at shoulder and above, while the other was positioned to record the intimate happenings in the lower area.

"Now mama, you are going to get dessert," she reported, entering the room.

With cameras running and recording, she lifted her skirt and slip, removed her panties, indicating I should move over into the camera range and lean back against the sofa.

Kneeling before me, she lifted my dress and slip, telling me I should hold it high, exposing all underneath. Then she pulled my panties down to my ankles. Immediately, my secret was revealed.

"Umm, this is going to be s-o-o-o g-o-o-d," she said as she kissed the head, then worked her way down my shaft. I was getting more and more aroused! She started taking little nips, enough to stimulate and not leave marks. Her hands were also busy: one on my shaft, the other playing with her clit. She pulled off for a second and smiled up at me with her beautiful brown face. Damn, she was talented.

When I was ready, she got up and bent over, using the sofa for support. To expose herself for me, she threw her slip and skirt over her back. I positioned myself behind her, dropped my raised slip and dress on her back. Her hand gently guided my moist organ into her warm love nest. A camera strategically placed recorded it all.

"Oh mama, fuck your little girl real good!"

I started, thrusting back and forth, and she mewed, moaned, and, at times, nearly screamed "Fuck me good."

"Do it to me, I want that big cock of yours. Do it, mommie!"

Thrust, "thwap," thrust, "thwap," thrust – there was a rhythm built up, and I could feel I was about to cum. I wanted to pull out, but she held it in.

My breath came in gasps; heartbeat a little more rapid; soon, the pulsing and a flood of semen flooded into her as I ejaculated. I felt like I was on top of the world!

When I pulled out, I was miserable! I just had screwed an underage girl. I never did anything like this before. I wanted to go home.

"Oh God, that was wonderful!" Carla said enthusiastically as she kissed and hugged me -- I wanted to hide. "Put your panties on mom. I love you so much!"

As I put the panties back on, I realized the significance "Carla's." I was, indeed, now hers to do with as she pleased.

Carla came over to me and said, "Mommy, you take a rest. I'll clean these things up."

I collapsed into a nearby chair to ponder my fate if anyone should hear about this. She bounced around the room, picking this up, straightening that, and moving something else. I wish I were just as busy!

Noticing my mood, Carla called, "Hey, mama! You okay?"

"Don't you realize that I just had intercourse with an underage female?"

"And who might that be!?!"

"You!"

Carla walked over and sat across my lap, put her arms around me and said, "Mama, I'm eighteen – don't you remember my birthday?"

Well, there I was: "Judy" Cleaver, cleaning and dusting with my pretty teenage daughter. We worked together, cooked a dinner, washed dishes, and, again, I screwed her – this time on the bed in her room.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tom interrupted his father's story to ask: "Okay, so you had a little roll in the hay! What's that got to do with what got you upset?"

"I'm coming to that!" Paul replied. "Just have a little patience!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

That night after my shower and makeup removal, I put on her mother's pale lime green nightgown. Carla wore one of those shortie nightgowns. I got into her mother's bed, and when she was finished in the bathroom, she joined me. Well, she sucked mine, I licked hers, and I took her, missionary-style. I speared my beautiful African Huntress, wounding her deep in my heart.

We slept, spooned, that night; her gown way up, my gown way up, and her sphincter lovingly embracing my still erect rod. I had my left arm around her, shielding her from predators, or maybe keeping others away.

In the morning, we got up, put on matching slippers and robes, and went down to make a breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham slice, toast and orange juice. After the meal, we retired to our respective rooms to dress for that day.

I dressed in a pink panty-and-bra set, a pastel blue full slip, blue ankle-length dress, knee-high stockings and Mary Janes. I omitted makeup and just put on a pearl necklace and matching earrings.

Going downstairs, I saw Carla in a white opalescent blouse, navy blue skirt, white anklets, and moccasins. I must say, she was a fox – I think that's the proper term.

"Hello, sweetheart," I crooned sweetly to her. "Emm, I do have to get home today, you know."

"I'm well aware of that," Carla replied, "and I don't have any panties on." With that said, she winked at me and turned.

Oh hell, I went this far! The seeds of my destruction were sown, and a little more plowing couldn't hurt too much more. I was halfway through the south forty when I heard IT -- the cough from a doorway.

My plow throbbed, then let another future corn crop go. Carla, climaxing, seemed oblivious to what was happening.

"What is going on?" an "inquiring" voice asked. There was no anger, disappointment, or disapproval, just an interest.

"Oh dear, you caught us. In flagrante delectio, I think," Carla replied innocently.

"I . . . I . . . ," I stuttered, caught like a kid with his hand in a cookie jar, or, in this case, panties around the ankles.

"Mom, this is Paul Marshall. Paul, this is my mother, Dana."

"How do you do," Dana said politely, offering her hand.

Shocked, my shaking hand shook her hand. Dana was approximately my size (as if you didn't know) and as attractive as her daughter.

"I a-a-am p-p-pleased t-t-to me-me-meet y-y-you, M-M-Mrs. Gu-Gu-Grant," I struggled to get out.

"Carla, dear, would you go out to the kitchen and make us a pot of coffee. We have a lot to discuss," Dana said quietly, adding, "and please call me Dana, Paul."

Her lack of anger surprised me – if I came home and found my daughter in a compromising position, out she would go.

I pulled up the panties, under Dana's watchful eye, as Carla left the room. With Carla gone, I expected her to lash out at me for corrupting the morals of a minor.

"You look nice, Paul. My dress seems to fit you quite nicely. I know Carla brought some makeup, so how was it?"

I pulled everything together, took a deep breath, and replied, "It was nice, perfect. I'm sorry you, emm, found us . . ."

"Please, no apologies! Let's have a quiet talk over coffee and donuts."

Okay, we went to the kitchen, sat down and discussed the situation. Now here's where the problem comes in, Tom.

"You came here of your own accord, Paul. You dressed in my clothes, ate my food, and screwed my daughter. I am not upset, despite what you may think. My deal is this: since you took on my daughter, I want your son."

"WHAT! I can't speak for him, and you know it. No," I replied.

"Oh come on, Paul. You have a lot to lose – there's still the photos my daughter has. It would be your ruination."

"But, Dana, I just can't force him into this. He has his own life to live – this would ruin his future."

"Paul, if I go to the authorities and say you had intercourse with an underage girl, what would happen then? Carla still has two months 'til her eighteenth birthday."

Great, just GREAT! I sat and ate, digesting what she said. From big trouble to bigger trouble. "Okay, what do you want?"

"In one weeks time on a Friday, about three-thirty pee em, bring him to this house. Here, you will dress in my clothes, and Tom will dress in my daughter's things. You will sleep with my daughter, and Tom will sleep with me. Bluntly speaking, he screws me and you screw her. You leave Sunday night. Oh, one more thing: he has to do this voluntarily."

The discussion was over! I got my clothes back, and, as soon as I was dressed, I was released. I drove around for awhile, then made my way home.

- - - - - - - - - -

"That's the whole story, Tom," Paul sadly said. "I got you in trouble, and I just don't know a way out."

"Great, pop! So that's what's troubling you. No wonder you're upset."

"Son, I would do anything to help you, but this . . .," Paul responded, a touch of sadness still there.

"Pop sure is upset," Tom thought, "but why? Is there something he's not saying? Is he holding anything back?"

Paul went back to fiddling around with the cup and spoon. An occasional sigh broke the silence.

"Pop, what kind of woman is Ms. Grant?"

"Well, she told me her first husband, Carla's father, was killed in an accident. He was a very nice person: kind, gentle, and decent. Carla was about ten years old when he was killed. When Carla was twelve, Dana hastily remarried and picked the wrong person. Her second husband was abusive and lazy. He didn't work or help around the house, and had some really bad friends. Once Dana caught him at home in bed with a neighbor's daughter. After two years, the marriage went sour, and he was kicked out. The last she heard he was dead – killed in jail by another prisoner. Dana seems to be pretty decent, Carla is nice to be with, and if it weren't for you, I wouldn't mind spending time with her."

"Pop, I'm sensing a problem here; am I wrong?"

Paul took a second to think about his answer, then replied: "Tom, it's just that I dress because it makes feel good and relieves tension -- I'm no longer Paul, the hard-working engineer; I become my femme persona, Judy. As far as I know, you have never experienced female garments and the feelings they bring out in you, and, right now, I feel like I'm forcing something on you. You'd be doing this for me, and not for yourself. I have no right whatsoever to have you do this for me; it must be because you want to."

Tom sat listening to his father. Aunt Judy, as he called her, was a fun person to be around. Whenever she and mom went shopping, mom always came home giggling like a schoolgirl. He recalled the gales of laughter when Judy mimicked a screen actress. Judy always had time for a game of cards, whereas pop was almost always busy. It was the Judy in pop who comforted him when he had nightmares, sewed buttons on his shirt, cried at sad movies, and was Paul at his best. Maybe it was time he had a "Judy" in his life.

"Pop. I em, I don't see a way out, either. As I see it, we should give her what she wants."

"Are you absolutely sure on this?"

"Well, not absolutely, but pretty damn close. So, what do we do?"

Paul quickly explained: "We are to be out there about three in the afternoon on a Friday, in drab – that's dressed in male clothes. We'll change out there, you dress in Carla's things, and I'll put on Dana's clothes."

"Emm, everything," Tom replied in a small voice.

"Yes! Head to toe, skin out."

"Ho boy, what have I got myself into!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The week was too short, and Friday came faster than they wanted.

Paul called in and took the day off. He bathed in a bubble bath, shaved as close as he could, and had Tom do the same. An inspection of Tom's face and body, including underarms, showed a smooth, soft surface.

Paul got the impression that Tom does have a nice face, and should make an interesting subject. I just hope he knows what he is getting himself into!

Tom, on the other hand, was putting up a good front. He was going to go through something few men experienced, and it scared him.

"Well, let's do it," Tom remarked with shaking hand.

"Okay!"

They left at a quarter-to-three for the short drive to the Grant house. Paul took to shortest route possible to prevent Tom changing his mind. He had a mind to call Carla and say he wasn't coming, but . . . well, he just chickened out. He wanted to be there right on three o'clock.

At two minutes of, he was parking in front of the garage door. As they approached the front door of the house, it opened and Carla greeted them.

"Hi, Paul! How are you doing? And this good looker must be Tom. On behalf of my mother, Dana, I welcome you to our home, Tom."

Tom hesitated a minute, then replied, "Thank you. You must be Carla."

"That's right, Tom. Come on in and relax a bit – mom has coffee and donuts ready."

Inside the house, Carla guided them to comfortable seats. Dana appeared a minute or so later with snacks. When all the introductions were taken care of, the group sat down and talked.

Tom started, "I understand you have some photos of my father in, shall we say, unflattering clothing."

Dana smiled, replying, "Well put! Yes, my daughter has them, and since you are here, he might earn them back."

"I don't think you have any photos, and you never did. I think this is all a hoax. Plainly speaking, you're bluffing!"

Dana smiled at his youthful enthusiasm. He'll be fun! "A question for you, Tom: How would my daughter know about 'Judy' if she didn't see for herself? She had a lot of information, you know."

Paul cringed at the thought. "Relax, son! She has us over a barrel."

Carla suddenly laughed, then replied, "No, it's more like you'll have us over a sofa."

Over a cup of coffee, Dana asked Tom a lot of questions, mostly about his schooling and social life. One question was startling: 'Tom, if you were to suddenly disappear, would a lot of people miss, or be concerned about, you?"

Tom thought for a minute before answering, "I'm not a real social person. I was too busy in school trying to get good marks, to go to parties and such. Why do you ask?"

Dana smiled, looked at a smiling Carla, then replied, "I have something in mind. I don't want to say too much about it right now."

"Oh, we're not going to 'bump you off' if that's what you're thinking," Carla added.

Suddenly, Tom had second thoughts about the donuts – make that the coffee too. Paul didn't seem to care, as he sat munching and drinking, possibly hoping there was something in the food. Well, one thing: both were rather good looking, and they seemed to have taken good care of their bodies.

"I have a dinner all ready prepared, waiting to go on the stove," announced Dana, "but first, we need a name for Tom."

"Why," Tom questioned.

"Sweetie, how many girls do you know with the name 'Tom.' "

"You have a choice from 'Alice' to 'Zelda,' " added a chuckling Carla.

"Hmmm, let's see. How about . . . no, she was too fat! Yes, that . . . no, she was, well just plain ugly. Nope, can't think – guess it'll have to be Tom!" That statement was said with clenched teeth and set jaw. Wow, what a clichéd response and it really didn't fit.

Carla smiled, and replied, "If sis can't think of a name, I guess it will be Zelda, Priscilla, or something like that. Gee, we'll have a missy 'Prissy' in the house."

"No Miss Priss!" Tom stated.

Dana replied, "No dear, but how about 'Martina?' We can call you 'Marti,' and that sounds pretty close to a guy's name."

Tom acquiesced, "Looks like I have no choice in the matter – Martina it is."

Dana softly retorted, "Tom, you have a choice. A different name, one you like. You can walk out of here, and take a chance with the photos. You can fight us, tie us up and search for the evidence we have. Or, accept what we can give you as a future. It's all up to you."

"Actually, I do like Marti, if I was to be a girl. And I did weigh the options, so the best path I see for now is to go along and see where it leads."

Dana enigmatically replied, "Well put, Tom. You should've been a diplomat. I promise you this, Tom, your life will never be the same after this weekend."

"Come on, Judy, let's get you dressed for dinner. Carla will take Marti up and help her," Dana said, and took my arm for the long climb upstairs. Paul looked back as Carla helped Tom up and head for the stairs.

(Interlude: I would write of Paul becoming Judy, and Tom very reluctantly becoming Marti, but I'll leave that to your imagination. Suffice it to say, one was hesitant, the other remorseful.)

At four thirty, Judy and Dana left their room and descended the stairs. Judy patiently waited to see just how Tom (now Marti) would take this.

Pausing at the base of the stairs, Dana took Judy's hand and said, "It will be alright, wait and see."

The lack of an answer troubled Dana, as she was not some insensitive bitch.

Judy turned slowly, and answered in a voice tinged with remorse, "Dana, I do hope so. If it doesn't, I will make it my business to turn your life into a living hell!"

Dana quietly replied, "I would expect you would. If this doesn't, I will deserve it!"

Then two more came down to dinner: one smiling, and the other, puzzled. A first look required a second, and a third.

Dana smiled and Judy's look. "Like it, Judy?" she queried.

Carla was dressed in clothing resembling a younger version of Judy, and Marti, as a miniature(?) Dana.

"Mommy, I'm home," Carla let out before kissing Judy. She called to Marti, "Show the pretty panties to mommy."

A tentative hand went down, slowly, and lifted the dress and slip. A pair of lovely pale blue lacy panties came into view. On the panties was a lace-lined red heart, and embroidered on the heart was "I'm Dana's toy."

Upon seeing the embarrassed look, Judy did the same, revealing a similar heart with an appliquéd, "I'm Carla's toy."

Dana walked over to Marti and said, "You look very pretty, sweetheart," then kissed him more like a lover than a mother would a daughter.

"Dad, I . . ., I feel so . . . so dirty," Tom said, holding his head down.

Judy looked at him then softly said, "No, son, you're not dirty. That's the outside, the world, speaking to you! Relax; take a deep breath. Don't let your mind speak -- quiet yourself and just feel with your heart. Enjoy the perfume, the softness, allow yourself to just be."

Two women plus their daughters got a meal started together, ate together, and washed up after together. Later with coffee, sitting around a TV and talking, they discussed plans for a future, together.

"Judy, I work for a large insurance company as a claims investigator. I study claims as they are passed on and make a personal investigation, where I feel it is necessary. In some cases, I have been called upon to make structural damage assessments. I've been involved with staged auto accidents, arson, and claims on non-existent people and buildings. I do walkthroughs of factories, buildings and offices showing where they can improve their safety. I want you to be my assistant. Marti can start in the mailroom, study, and work her way up – ninety-five percent of the time, the company promotes from within."

"You mean you don't want me to be some stay-at-home French Maid, little wifey, or something?" Judy replied with Carla playing four-year-old on his lap.

"No! You're too intelligent for that. I want to use those smarts so I can get ahead. The company said to me: get an assistant, and you get to be department head. Now you see?"

It was interesting. Every day could bring a new challenge.

Dana continued, "My position is in name only – I'll be with you all the time. You'll be salaried, expenses covered whenever you're out in the field, and we'll share a private office."

"And what about Judy?"

"Geez, Paul – who do you think we're talking about."

Monday, Paul gave notice he was leaving for another state to take over a non-existing family business. Tom inquired about finishing his education through home schooling. Carla actually was eighteen, and finished with school. Friday, the men moved away.

About a month later, Dana Grant, with his father's permission, married Tom Marshall, and Carla Grant, with her mother's blessings, married Paul Marshall. The wedding took place about two states away, but the union was legal in all respects. That was the last time either wore the pants in the family.

Two years later, somewhere in the Midwest there is a house. In that house live two mothers and two daughters, all happily working in the same place. There is a nursery with two one-year-old infants. Of course they are the same as many other working mothers and daughters, except for the strange sleeping arrangements!

In the attic, in a box, sits a smaller box with long-forgotten photos. The larger box also contains some interesting videos. Occasionally, family members come up and add new treasures to this trove!

 

The End, or a new start?

Annie O

 

 

 

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© 2003 by Ann O'Nonymous. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.